Their small numbers had been no match against the Otadini. The very first night of bombardment, Euricus had suffered a terrible arrow wound to the neck. Quickly, the Otadini had successfully cut off their supply lines and the Valeria Victrix had not been able to send a message to the nearest Roman camp for assistance before all lines were severed. The nearest milecastle had had tried to send help when they realized what had happened but had suffered heavy casualties in the process. Now, the men of Milecastle Nine were cut off from the rest of their cohorts by several thousand Otadini and hope had vanished as quickly as their food supplies and water had.
Now, five weeks after the initial bombardment, all remnants of survival were gone and their foolish commander, Euricus, languished in fevered misery. He had survived the initial attack but death was coming soon for him and he cried steadily, weeping for the comforts of his mother, as his men slowly starved to death around him. The spoilt son of a spoilt senator had led his troops straight into the snarling teeth of defeat. No glory, no great praise; for young Euricus, all he would know was failure.
Deep in the barracks of the milecastle, the surviving five legionaries were hunkered down. There was no use in fighting anymore because they had run out of arrows or anything else with which to launch an offensive. The animals that hadn’t been burned on the first night when the stables had been set ablaze had been used for food, and all of that food was gone. Now, the legionaries were sucking on leather or digging up earthworms in an attempt to sate their hunger. The rains had come a few nights ago and had provided them with some water, but that reserve was quickly diminishing.
On this night of nights, An older legionary sat at the far end of the barracks alongside a younger cohort. The older man had stepped in to take charge when their foolish commander had been injured. Quintus Aquinus Falco was that man, also charged with tending the commander since the legion’s surgeon had been killed in the course of the fighting. As Quintus leaned back against the cold stone wall, his gaze on the young commander lying upon his rope bed, twitching and weeping, he spoke to his nearest cohort.
“The moon will be full this night,” he said softly. “It will be very bright when it finally rises.”
Those were ominous words, echoing gently in the dark, dank confines of the barracks. The man he spoke to was a younger man, handsome, and an excellent fighter. He was rarely without his sword in hand, his gladius, and in fact had been busily working on the blade for several days; using a very sharp chisel, one he’d taken from the smithy shack, he had evidently been writing something into the blade of the sword. It had occupied nearly his every waking moment.
When the young cohort didn’t reply immediately, Quintus turned his attention away from the dying commander to see what he was doing. Still, he was chiseling away at his blade. Whatever he was doing, he was quite determined to finish it.
“Lucius?” Quintus asked. “Did you hear me? The moon will be full tonight.”
Lucius Maximus Aentillius glanced up at his older friend. “I heard you.”
Quintus watched the man as he continued to etch on the forged steel blade. “It will be as bright as the sun,” he said, a hint of defeat in his tone. “They will come tonight, you know. They will finish the job.”
Lucius didn’t look up from his task. “Why would you say that?”
“Because if it was me, I would wait for the full moon so that I could see clearly as I overrun the fort.”
Lucius’ etching slowed as thoughts of a full moon and thousands of Otadini filled his brain. “I was thinking the same thing,” he said quietly. “But I wanted to hear your confirmation. There is nothing we can do other than defend until the death. And I would suggest remaining here in the barracks. If we spread out and try to defend the entire fort, they will pick us off one by one.”
Quintus was shaking his head even as his friend was speaking. He looked up at the roof of the barracks, the wooden and peat cover over their heads. “This place is indefensible,” he said. “They will try to light the roof on fire and burn it down over our heads.”
“Then what would you suggest?”
Quintus didn’t say anything and Lucius finally looked up at him. When their eyes met, Lucius could see the makings of surrender in the dark-circled eyes.
“Would you rather die by a savage’s axe or by my sword?” Quintus asked softly. “I can assure your death will be quick and relatively painless. The Otadini will make sport of you while you are still alive.”
Lucius knew that. He struggled with that sobering thought, turning his attention back to his gladius. He ran his fingers over the blade, now with words etched into it.
“I had hoped to see my wife again,” he whispered. “You have heard me speak of Theodosia.”
Quintus nodded. “I have.”
Lucius smiled faintly as he thought of the radiant beauty of titian-colored hair and deep blue eyes.
“I was going to send for her, you know,” he said. “I had hoped to be transferred to Londinium and I was going to have her join me there. I’ve not seen her in well over a year. We were only married a short time before I was sent here.”
Quintus could see that the thought of his wife was greatly weighing upon Lucius. The man was usually so even tempered, difficult to rile, but thoughts of his lovely wife had him bordering on sorrow. It was in his movements now, and in everything about him.
“You will see her again,” Quintus said softly, with encouragement. “In the fields of Elysium. You will be waiting for her when she arrives, Lucius. There is no sorrow in that.”
Lucius gave him a weak smile. “What do I do in the meantime until she comes?” he wanted to know. “Shall we drink and gamble to pass the time? If Theo finds out, she will be very angry with me. She does not like gambling.”
Quintus laughed softly, as did Lucius. Women never liked anything that was fun. When Lucius turned back to his sword, using the chisel to clean up what he had already done, Quintus pointed at the sword.
“What have you been doing for weeks?” he asked. “You have worked on that sword constantly.”
Lucius blew on the few slivers of steel that he’d scraped up. Then, he held up the sword, trying to see his handiwork in the weak light of sunset.
“It is a message to my wife,” he said, running his hand along the inscription. “I will die, and this place will be destroyed, but this blade… it will last. It is my hope that those who come after us will find it and pass it along to my wife.”
Quintus held out his hand and Lucius passed the gladius to him. The older soldier carefully inspected the words, softly reading them back.
“My beloved Theodosia –
Crimson and embers, my love for thee,
For eternity will it bind us.
In Elysium will I wait, my heart of fragile stars,
With dreams only of you.”
When he was finished, his gaze lingered on the words as he murmured them over again, repeating them, savoring the beauty. Then, he glanced up at Lucius.
“You should have been a poet, my friend,” he said. “You have the soul of one.”